


on the reliability of surgical knots and sutures

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Descriptions of surgical procedures, F/F, Found Families, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Injury / Blood, Neuroatypicality, discussion of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sameen finds clarity in the mechanics of surgery. It takes a well-placed ligature to stop the bleeding, a nudge of her finger on the instrument to cauterize a vessel. Cause and effect. Simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the reliability of surgical knots and sutures

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to villainny, my wonderful beta: you leave the loveliest, most encouraging comments, make sure that there is no second _Colon Incident of 2016_ and generally make me feel amazing about my writing  <3 
> 
> Special thanks to kizzyshao for discussing Shaw meta with me for this fic; their input was so incredibly helpful and their understanding of the character and where I wanted to take this fic was fantastic. 
> 
> Thanks also to Dana & talking2thesky for being wonderful and letting me spam them with my writing. You guys rock. : D

_**Surgical sutures**_ are used to hold body tissues together after surgery. Generally, a needle with an attached length of thread is used. Surgical knots secure the sutures.

A _**surgical knot**_ is a simple modification to the reef knot and is commonly used in surgical suturing in cases when it's important to maintain tension on the suture. Other knots find application in surgery as well: they can be created both left- and right-handed or twisted around a metal instrument for the so-called instrument tie.

Surgical technique and the construction of knots are essential to further healing, reduce the risk of inflammation and promote pleasing aesthetic results.

\--

 

**One. Prelude.**

_“Winning is overrated. The only time it is really important is in surgery and war.”_

_\- Al McGuire_

–

The OR lights above her head are bright and hot. Sameen keeps her hands folded in front of her as if in prayer while she is waiting to step up to the table. Her skin tingles from the dried disinfectant beneath the sterile surgical gloves.

_It's not that different from wuḍūʾ_ , _the ceremonial washing done before Islamic prayer_ , she thinks. The same procedure every time, relentless, vigorous, mind-numbing. _Cover your forearms and hands in disinfectant, rub it into your skin. Don't touch anything. Mind the exposure time. Repeat the same procedure for your wrists. Don't touch anything. Keep your wrists above elbow level. Repeat the same procedure for your hands. (Don't touch anything.) Mind the exposure time. Keep your hands above elbow level. Don't brush the sides of the door on your way out._

Sameen visualizes her anatomy textbook, all of those colorful drawings of internal organs and vessels helpfully labeled like trains on a subway map. It's different in the OR, messy, unexpected. Human bodies don't look like drawings on the inside, but she doesn't mind. Sameen finds clarity in the mechanics of surgery. It takes a well-placed ligature to stop the bleeding, a nudge of her finger on the instrument to cauterize a vessel. Cause and effect. Simple.

The surgical field is a rectangle of human skin framed by green surgical cloth. She read somewhere that the color is supposed to be easy on the eye when it comes into contact with blood; blood on white fabric supposedly looks more alarming than the brownish color it makes on green.

Sameen swabs at the incision, soaking up the blood. Her attendings like to let her scrub in because even as a med student she had a reputation for being virtually unflappable. She assisted trauma cases that had her elbow-deep in the bowels of a patient, didn't flinch at perforating fractures, bleeding head traumas or amputations. It's not even a measure of her _self-control._ Sameen closes her hand around the cool metal of the retractor and pulls back. It genuinely doesn't bother her.

_Surgery must be tough for people who actually feel things._

Her feet hurt inside of the plastic OR shoes. It's her third surgery of the day and she had to skip lunch to finish a thyroidectomy, and her stomach is growling with hunger.

"Kocher," her attending says, and the OR nurse hands him the corresponding metal instrument. He points to the vessels he is working on. Sameen rattles off the anatomical names.

This, too, is easy. Rote memorization, mnemonics and discipline and repetition, repetition, repetition. Sameen never struggled with classes that relied heavily on memorization.

What troubled her was this: she remembers her first day on the wards in psychiatry with horror, all those endless questions and little boxes to check, big gaps in the sheets used to take a patient's history to record everything from their sleeping habits to their general outlook on life.

"We avoid wearing white on the wards as much as possible," her attending said to her. "It causes distress to some of the patients."

She remembers paging through the thick diagnostic manual of psychiatric conditions in the afternoon, waiting for the hours to tick by and her shift to end. Sameen read the diagnostic criteria for personality disorders, frowning at the needlessly complicated systems and the sheer vagueness of everything, not one lab result or clear diagnostic test, just talking, talking, talking. On the page for 'schizoid personality disorder', she read:

 

_The disorder is characterized by the following symptoms:_

  1. Emotional coldness; being distant and removed.
  2. Limited capacity to express emotions.
  3. Prefers solitary activities.
  4. Indifference to praise and criticism.
  5. Perceived as unaffectionate, chilly, uncaring.
  6. Forms very few close relationships (and has no desire for such).



 

Sameen closed the book. The clock ticked away in the doctor's lounge.

"Can I go?" she had asked her attending when he came into the room.

When she got back to her dorm room, she sat down at her desk. _"The aortic arch has three branches_ ," she recited to herself. _"The brachiocephalic trunk, the left common carotid artery and the left subclavian artery_."

Inside the OR, her attending takes the retractor from her and places her finger on one of the vessels he is working on. Beneath Sameen's fingertips, it pulses in time with the patient's heartbeat, a gentle _thud, thud, thud._

"We work very close to the artery here," her attending says. "It's fascinating to remember that we work on a living, breathing person, isn't it? Quite a thrill."

Sameen nods absently. There's blood on her gloves and the lights are hot against her neck. There's sweat running down her back beneath her sterile gown and scrubs.

She doesn't feel anything at all.

\--

 

**Two. Emotional coldness; being distant and removed.**

_“Even you can't run forever,” Finch says, and she thinks 'Watch me'._

_\--_

“Stop stealing my fries, weirdo,” Sameen says and kicks John in the shin for good measure.

“This is already food for five people,” John complains, peeking into an empty paper bag.

They are camped out in the library, Bear curled up beneath Harold's desk. Harold occupies the desk chair, Sameen and John are sprawled on the couch.

“I kicked a lot of ass today. Burns calories,” Sameen says through her third cheeseburger.

Harold stares at her like she's a mustard stain on his expensive tweed. “I am beginning to suspect a metabolic disorder of some kind,” he says, but hands over the rest of his food anyway.

Sameen holds out some of her fries and Bear comes running obediently to sit next to the couch and devour them. Harold opens his mouth, but Sameen shoots him a look.

“Don't even start,” she says. “I saw you slip him half of your donut earlier, and a whole hot-dog that one time.”

Harold huffs. “I bought him brand-name hypoallergenic dog food with excellent customer reviews, and he still prefers fast food. I am somewhat offended.” Sameen thinks she has known him long enough by now to hear the fondness in his voice, the smile that doesn't quite translate into his facial expression.

“None of the reviews were written by dogs, I guess,” John says. He takes a bit of meat and throws it to Bear, who leaps up and catches it mid-flight.

Sameen scratches Bear's ears. “Showoff.” She swallows the last piece of her burger and reaches for the rest of John's food. “Hey, are you done with that?”

She lets him win the ensuing mock-fight so as to not bruise his ego, while Harold sighs and turns back to his desk, resuming his work.

As far as jobs go, this isn't half bad.

–-

 

**Three. Limited capacity to express emotions.**

_“You don't get scared?” Gen asks. Sameen doesn't flinch. She never does. “Or sad. Or happy or lonely. I do angry okay, but that's about it.”_

\--

“Fucking asshole,” Sameen says, pulling John along with her. She has her hands on his side to steady him, and his blood is slick and warm on her palms.

_“Mr. Reese?”_ Harold says through the earpiece, alarmed.

“He got shot,” Sameen says. Harold makes a choked noise over the line. Sameen thinks it's probably more of an admission than he's comfortable with.

“It's not that bad,” John says, pale and sweaty and most likely in hypovolemic shock already from blood loss.

She can't see the entrance wound, but even so, the speed and amount of bleeding suggest that an artery was hit, and probably not a small one.

(Sameen thinks of the _thud, thud, thud_ of that vessel beneath her fingers. _Trains on a subway map._ She has to get him to safety, identify the structures, stop the bleeding. It's all just science, the mechanics of surgery.)

“It's still a _fucking bullet_ ,” Sameen says and shoves him into the car.

“Christ, Shaw,” John says. His white shirt is stained a deep, dark red where he got hit. “I didn't realize you cared about me that much.”

“I _don't_ ,” she snarls, kicking the engine into gear and flooring it. Fucking hell, she can't do visceral surgery in a goddamn _library._

_“How bad is it?”_ Harold says in her ear.

“Threw himself in front of me like an _idiot_ ,” Sameen mutters, speeding over a red light.

“You're welcome,” John says from the backseat, and then coughs all wet and painful in a way that makes Sameen wonder if she needs to stop the car and make sure that he doesn't die before they arrive.

_“I'll make the necessary arrangements,”_ Harold says. She can hear his furious typing over the line. _“Will you need– you will need medical equipment, I believe that one of the safehouses has– If there is a way to drop him off at a hospital, surely I can work something out–“_

“Harold,” Sameen says. “Breathe.” There is a moment of silence. “I won't let him die,” she says.

“I trust you,” Harold says. It's like hitting a road bump at top speed, like someone slapped her across the face.

“I'll meet you at the safehouse,” Sameen says, her hands clutching the steering wheel.

John has gone suspiciously silent. “Are you hurt?” he asks after a while, his voice slurred like he's already half unconscious.

“Just shut the hell up, Reese,” Sameen says and pushes the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

–

Sameen rolls the bloody swabs and gauze into the disposable sheets and stuffs everything into a trash bag. She grabs folded up sterile equipment, empty bottles of electrolyte solution, rolls of surgical tape, making sure to dispose of anything sharp separately. When they arrived at the safehouse, Harold had already arranged for everything from surgical needles and thread to a plastic cooling box filled with bags of O-negative. If they ever get tired of saving people, she's sure he could run a pretty respectable criminal empire.

Sameen only realizes that her arms are streaked with blood once she peels off the surgical gloves. She didn't bother with a sterile gown, it's not like the safehouse is even close to an operating room, so pouring disinfectant over her hands and getting the gloves on had been as close as she could get unless she was planning on wasting even more time.

She told Harold to leave the room once she started working on John. She really didn't have any capacity to take care of him in case Harold fainted with worry and ended up with a bleeding head wound.

Now she sees him walking out of Reese's room, looking pale and worried and much older than he usually does.“Oh,” he says. He stares at the mess of used medical equipment.

“I think I got some blood on the carpet,” Sameen says. “Sorry.”

Harold walks over to her and takes her arm, and Sameen is so surprised that she lets him lead her into the bathroom without question. Harold turns on the tap and holds his hands under the faucet to check the temperature. Then he runs his hands over her arms and washes off the blood from her skin. _John's blood._

“The sutures looked fine, no bleeding,” Sameen says, more to herself. She is reminded of something, suddenly: _the same procedure every time, relentless, vigorous, mind-numbing. Cover your forearms and hands in disinfectant, rub it into your skin. Don't touch anything. Mind the exposure time. Repeat the same procedure for your wrists. Don't touch anything._

The water circles in the sink, stained red at first and then a lighter pink. Harold produces a bar of soap and spreads the foam over her hands and wrists, which is good because for some reason, Sameen finds herself unable to move her arms.

This is stupid, pointless, this isn't different from any other surgery she's ever done. _She_ isn't different; she doesn't do these things, affection and caring and sentimentality.

_(Don't touch anything. Mind the exposure time. Repeat the same procedure for your wrists. Don't touch anything.)_

She rests her head on Harold's shoulder, and Harold squeezes her hand, slick with water and soap. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands are steady where he touches her. He doesn't stop until the water runs clear again.

–-

 

**Four. Prefers solitary activities.**

_“You know, I never had many friends. Didn't have much use for them,” Sameen says, because it's true._

–-

“This is the most fun I've had in _years_ ,” Joss says, flushed and panting with exertion, leaning against a haystack.

Sameen grins and gets to her feet in one smooth move to fire a few precise paintball shots at the wall of the fake barn in front of them before crouching down again.

“You gotta try a little harder than that, ladies!” Lionel shouts from the other end of the playing field.

“You're going down, Fusco!” Joss yells, reloading her paintball rifle and adjusting her protective visor. “Have you seen John lately? He's suspiciously quiet.”

Sameen scans the area just in case John has decided to switch to guerrilla warfare tactics. “Maybe he got distracted because a kitten was stuck in a tree somewhere,” she suggests, and Joss snorts with laughter.

“Ready to take them down?” Sameen asks.

“Let's _do_ this,” Joss says, beaming, and then they're both running, ready to attack.

–

“I feel like only the winners deserve sandwiches,” Joss says with a grin. She tosses one of the tinfoil bundles to John.

“Yeah, _you won_ , we know, you only mentioned it about six times in the last hour,” Lionel says, taking a swig from his bottle. “Also, without me, you wouldn't have sandwiches in the first place.”

They're sitting in the shade of a large tree some distance away from the playing field. Sameen and Joss clink their beer bottles together.

“We kicked your asses using _toy guns_ , guys. How are you so bad at paintball?” Joss asks. Sameen really wants to go down to the shooting range with her sometime, fire some actual ammunition.

“Lionel has some trouble following direction,” John grumbles.

Lionel elbows him in the side, and John makes a betrayed face. “I don't see why you have to be the one who calls the shots,” Lionel says. “You're a fake police officer, you're not even a part of the chain of command. I should just arrest your ass and be done with it.”

Sameen leans back against the trunk of the tree. The sun is filtering through the branches, warming her face. _Cole would have loved this_ , she thinks. It's just an observation, a random thought. Maybe if she was better at grieving, she could actually tie an emotion to the idea.

“Everything okay?” Joss asks.

Sameen nods and takes a sip of beer. “Sure.” Joss tilts her head like she's calling bullshit, and Sameen sighs. “I was just thinking of a friend of mine who would be all over this. Well, maybe not the actual shooting people part, more like, I don't know. Him sitting in a tree and being a tactical genius, that kind of thing.”

She thinks of Cole, sometimes, when Harold's voice crackles in her ear like static. Harold doesn't curse as much – Harold doesn't curse at all, as far as she knows - and he certainly drinks less, but Sameen thinks they might have gotten along.

Joss smiles. “You should invite him sometime.”

“He's dead,” Sameen says. It's just a statement, flat, expressionless. If she thinks about him it's just random association, neurons firing in her brain. She doesn't _do_ emotions, she's not wired that way.

_(There's blood on her gloves and the lights are hot against her neck. There's sweat is running down her back beneath her sterile gown and scrubs._

_She doesn't feel anything at all.)_

Joss' expression softens. “I'm sorry,” she says. “A fellow soldier?”

“Something like that.”

Across from them, Lionel and John are still arguing about stealth tactics in paintball games.

“You know, if you ever want to talk,” Joss says.

Sameen tries her best approximation of a friendly smile. “No offense, but I don't really do that _talking about feelings_ thing.”

“Sure,” Joss says. “Suit yourself, I am getting used to the fact that my group of friends is mostly made up of socially awkward spies. As long as you don't break into my apartment in the middle of the night to leave a giant plastic container with homemade lasagna, we should be fine.”

“You are _shitting_ me,” Sameen says, nearly spitting out her beer.

Joss makes a face. “I wish. I nearly shot him. I mean, John makes a killer lasagna, but man, at what price.”

Sameen thinks that her friendly smile impression just got a little more convincing.

–-

 

**Five. Indifferent to praise and criticism.**

_“I couldn't make you look bad if I tried,” Root says. Sameen rolls her eyes. Yeah, whatever._

_–-_

“That's really hot,” Root says, while Sameen puts a neat row of stitches into her shoulder.

“Might be infected, then,” Sameen says. She ties a knot and cuts the excess bit of thread, then repositions the needle. Her choice of interrupted stitch over intracutaneous suture is a personal preference; in her experience, it reduces the risk of inflammation and gets you a neater approximation of the wound edges. Still, at this point, Sameen is starting to regret her choice of technique since it's offering Root so much time to _talk._ She should just use a skin stapler next time and be done with it.

“And funny,” Root says, tilting her head. “The whole package.”

John gives them a dubious glance across the subway station. Fuck him, he's been running circles around Harold like a neglected puppy ever since they started that new identity bullshit. Sameen has to give out perfume samples. Her heels make her _feet bleed._

“How did you manage to get a flesh wound anyway?” Sameen asks. She ties the next knot with her other hand just to stay in practice.

Root watches her with interest. She refused a local anesthetic, but to her credit, she hasn't flinched once, not even when the needle perforated the skin. In fact, she kinda seems to like it, which is troubling on a whole new level.

“I was running an errand for the Machine,” Root says casually. She wears a sharp business suit like a lawyer, or maybe a CEO. You usually don't get stabbed in law firms, though.

“Sure, whatever,” Sameen says. She works in silence for a while, then she finishes her suture and digs around in her bag for some surgical tape.

Root leans in. She is wearing her hair in soft, shiny curls today. It looks like she gets regular, expensive hair appointments. At least you can't say she’s not taking her cover identities seriously.

“It was worth it just to get your hands on me,” Root says with a razorblade-smile.

Sameen peels off the plastic and smoothes the tape over the wound. “I would feel honored, if I could feel anything at all,” she says.

Root tilts her head a little. It makes her hair fall into her face, and Sameen suddenly wants to know if it feels as glossy as it looks between her fingers, what would happen if she got her hands all twisted up in it and _pulled,_ if Root would arch up against her and open her mouth under Sameen's–

“Thanks,” Root says, winking at her, and rolls the sleeve of her blouse down over her arm again.

Sameen systematically cleans up her working space and disposes of the trash while Root saunters off to bother Harold at his desk.

Sameen takes off her gloves and flexes her hands. She tries to shake the image of Root's dark curls wound around her fingers, but it's persistent, like the flicker of light before a migraine. There's a bottle of Scotch in one of the cabinets and a clean coffee mug on the table. The sting of alcohol should do well enough, Sameen figures.

_(It takes a well-placed ligature to stop the bleeding, a nudge of her finger on the instrument to cauterize a vessel. Cause and effect. Simple.)_

–-

 

**Six. Perceived as unaffectionate, chilly, uncaring.**

_“There's no time like the present, Sameen. Why are you so afraid to talk about your feelings?” Jesus Christ, Root._

_“Feelings? I'm a sociopath. I don't have feelings.”_

_–-_

“Like _this,_ ” Root says, her hand like a piece of rope around Sameen's wrist, holding her in place.

Sameen has her hand between Root's legs, her thumb stroking her clit while Root circles her hips against her.

“God, you're so greedy,” Sameen says, leaning down to kiss Root's pale throat. “It's a real turn-on.”

She has made Root come twice already, once with her fingers and once with her mouth. There's a map of blue veins beneath Root's skin, scattered freckles on her shoulders like stars.

Sameen bends her head to suck a nipple into her mouth, and Root gasps and twists Sameen's hand until she has found the right angle. _“Oh,”_ she says, shuddering.

“Yeah, that's it, come on,” Sameen says, and Root's spine arches gracefully when she shakes apart beneath her.

Later, they lie tangled up together with the sheets kicked away, both of them breathing heavily. Sameen can feel the pulse in Root's throat against her fingertips. ( _“The aortic arch has three branches: the brachiocephalic trunk, the left common carotid artery and the left subclavian artery_.")

“You fuck like the world ends tomorrow,” Sameen says. God, she's tired, but she's still too keyed up to sleep. Root spent the better part of an hour working on her with a vibrator. Sameen thinks her legs will probably give in if she gets up too quickly.

Root combs her fingers through Sameen's hair and kisses a scar on her shoulder. “You never know,” she says.

Sameen gives her a dubious look. “Did the Machine tell you something? Because _if_ the world ends tomorrow and you're not telling anyone, I know a bunch of people who will be pretty pissed, including me.”

Root grins and rolls her eyes. “The world isn't going to end tomorrow, Sameen. I just like to enjoy things while they last.”

Sameen runs her thumb over the scar behind Root's ear, just above the implant. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Root swallows. “I'd track you down if you tried,” she says, but her smile is too shaky to mask the real insecurity beneath.

“I'm not leaving,” Sameen says.

When Root puts her arms around her and pulls her close it should feel suffocating, claustrophobic. It should make her want to run.

(It doesn't, and that is both the best and the worst part.)

–-

 

**Seven. Forms very few close relationships (and has no desire for such).**

_“The only thing I was good at was killing people, but I'm working on it,” Sameen says. She surprises herself by how much she means it._

–-

Sameen is almost finished reassembling her guns when she hears the creak of Harold's chair and his sharp hiss of pain. She gets to her feet and walks over to him.

“It's fine, it's nothing,” Harold says, wincing. He has his hand pressed to the juncture of his right neck and shoulder.

“Let me see,” Sameen says. It's not a request.

Harold raises an eyebrow at her. When he moves his head to look at her, it makes him grimace in pain again.

“When did you take your last painkiller?”

Harold moves his hand away from his shoulder and lets her examine him, which just proves in what a bad state he really is. “I had some ibuprofen with lunch,” he says defensively.

Sameen frowns at him. It's 9 pm by now. “You're treating severe chronified pain with ibuprofen? Since when?”

Harold looks away. “You may have noticed that our funds are currently somewhat limited, and our usual supply routes dried up.”

She places her fingertips against the warm skin of his neck. “I'm pretty sure I could get you some illegal opiates, Harold. I don't know if you're aware, but drug addicts really dig them.”

“Yes, getting arrested for the purchase of illicit substances is just what you need right now,” Harold mutters.

“Does this hurt?” Sameen asks, pressing down over his spine.

“It's really not that bad,” Harold says, except then Sameen pushes her thumb down on a tense muscle in his shoulder and he yelps and nearly jumps out of his seat.

“I don't think it's your spine, I think it's muscle strain from sitting at this desk all day. It's making the rest of your chronic issues flare up.”

“Thank you for that assessment,” Harold says, in that prissy voice he uses when he thinks people are being idiots.

“You're welcome,” Sameen says, unbothered. She presses two pills out of the blister that he keeps on his desk and hands them to him along with a bottle of water. “Here. Tomorrow we'll review your pain medication and make a list of the substances I need to get you. It's not helping anyone if you run yourself into the ground, Harold.”

Harold swallows the pills. He looks so tense that it's physically painful. His shoulders are almost drawn up to his ears. She could kick herself for not noticing it sooner. Of course Harold would rather suffer pain or put himself through fucking opiate-withdrawal rather than admit that he might have some extra needs.

“Good. Now take off your shirt,” Sameen says.

–

Getting Harold to take off his shirt and waistcoat and sit down on the crash bed in the back takes an awful lot of convincing. Once she has her hands on his neck and shoulders, he takes a startled breath, like he forgot what human contact feels like.

Sameen presses down into one of the knots in his neck and starts to loosen it, warming up the muscles and gently working out the tension.

Harold groans, suddenly not that big on complaining anymore. “Oh, that is– yes, _oh,_ ” he says.

Sameen has dug out the topical NSAID she uses on John's shoulder, a gel that turns warm once you rub it into the skin. A nice massage is not the solution to Harold's severe pain issues, obviously, but the strained muscles are certainly not improving his pain. There is also something gratifying about the soft, relieved noises Harold makes while she works the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. She can feel him relax fractionally under her hands, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Maybe, Sameen thinks, she can get John to do this on a regular basis. It would help with both Harold's tension and John's _Please let me help you, Harold_ puppy expression.

She lets her hands rest on his shoulders for a moment when she's done. Harold reaches up and covers her left hand with his.

_I didn't really do anything,_ Sameen thinks. “You don't have to be in pain,” she says instead, because it seems important.

“Thank you,” Harold says and squeezes her hand.

Maybe there are ways of healing that don't involve a scalpel.

–

“Get _off_ him, Jesus Christ,” Sameen says. She's strong, but John is tall, and apparently fucking determined to scare the shit out of the guy he's cornered at the back of the alley.

“I swear, I didn't even touch her,” the guy says, shielding his face with his hands. There's blood gushing from his nose where John punched him, thick red liquid dripping onto his shirt.

It's not that Sameen is opposed to beating up abusive husbands on principle, especially if they're the kind of scumbags who give their spouses severe head trauma and fractured ribs and get away with it because they have friends in the NYPD. Then again, John has a pretty short fuse when it comes to domestic violence, so she should probably step in before they end up with a body to bury. Not that it would be a big loss for humanity, really, but digging a grave is _hard work._

Harold already set up the guy's wife with a new identity, which means that all there is for them to do is to suggest he turn himself in and to discourage him from ever hurting someone again, which, Sameen guesses, they've already done.

John delivers another punch for good measure. “Do you get off on that, hmh?” he snarls. “Taking out your anger on your wife? Does it make you feel like a real tough guy?”

“Reese, he had enough,” Sameen says. It helps that she's literally twisting John's arm at this point, she guesses, because John backs off and shakes off her grip, then he storms off in the direction of the street.

The guy crumbles the second John lets him go, clutching at his bleeding nose. He looks like he'll faint any second. Figures. Not so much of a tough guy when he's confronted with someone who'll punch his lights out.

Sameen crouches down in front of him. The guy flinches.“You see, my friend really hates abusive assholes like you, so maybe remember that in case you ever feel the need to lay hands on another person again, okay?” Sameen says. “Because next time, I'm sure as hell not going to be there to tell him to stop.”

She leaves him there, bleeding and humiliated and scared shitless. Sometimes you need to help karma along a little.

Sameen walks around to where they parked the car. John is sitting in the driver's seat, clutching the steering wheel. His knuckles are bloody and scraped raw. Sameen wonders if he hurt himself on the guy's teeth, or if he punched a wall on his way back to cause some additional damage. She wouldn't put it past him.

“I think we made our point,” Sameen says.

John turns his head. “Don't tell Harold,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“What? That we delivered our message and are pretty certain that this douche will never hurt someone again for as long as he lives? I'm pretty sure Harold will be pleased to hear that.”

John's facial expression doesn't change except for the subtle tightening of a muscle in his jaw, his only tell. “You know what I mean.”

Sameen sighs. “You can't let this hurt you over and over again,” she says. They always end up at this point during cases like this, inevitably. _(Repetition, repetition, repetition.)_

“I don't _want_ to,” John says. His expression is different, now. Pleading. _Just make it stop._

Sameen looks at him and is thankful that nothing in the world has that kind of power over her, except then she thinks about Root's hair wrapped around her fingers, a surgical suture stitched neatly into John's skin, Harold washing the blood off her hands.

She reaches out for his hands and examines the abrasions, and then John makes a helpless noise and lets himself lean against her shoulder.

“I know,” Sameen says, and it's not like the white boxes on the psychiatry ward at all, it's _understanding,_ deep and visceral and _terrifying._

John sobs and curls in on himself. The parking brake digs into his side when he rests his head in her lap, but he doesn't seem to notice. _This won't ruin you,_ Sameen thinks of saying, but she can't stand the idea of lying to him.

Instead, she pets John's head and turns on his earpiece, and when Harold's tinny voice from the speaker asks: “ _Mr. Reese, is everything alright?”,_ Sameen says: “Tell him. Just tell him.”

–

_Cover your forearms and hands in disinfectant, rub it into your skin. Don't touch anything. Mind the exposure time. Repeat the same procedure for your wrists. (Don't touch anything.) Keep your wrists above elbow level. Repeat the same procedure for your hands._

The dog shampoo is slick on her hands, the foam spread all the way up to her elbows. “You like that, don't you? Such a good boy.”

Bear whines, apparently not all that enthusiastic about his bath.

“I think we should try the hair dryer, see if he likes it,” Root says. Her black jeans are sticking to her, soaking wet from the time Bear tried to jump out of the metal tub. It's cold in the subway station, and Sameen can't wait to peel Root out of her wet clothes and warm her up again.

“I can't believe John has talked himself out of dog-washing duty yet again,” Sameen says.

She pours water over Bear's back to wash away the shampoo, regular, even movements like a ritual.

_(Don't touch anything. Mind the exposure time. Keep your hands above elbow level.)_

Root makes a face. “I mean, he is handy with firearms, I will grant him that, but I'm still not exactly sure what Harry sees in him.”

“He'd follow him anywhere,” Sameen says. Her hands are clean, soap-slick, no trace of blood at all. “No matter what Harold decided, or what terrible things he has done in the past, John has faith in him. He loved him long before he knew that Harold loved him back.” Sameen brushes a strand of hair away from her face. “I figured, you of all people would understand that.”

“Me of all people?” Root asks. Her smile flickers like a hologram.

“You were that way with me,” Sameen says.

_(It takes a well-placed ligature to stop the bleeding, a nudge of her finger on the instrument to cauterize a vessel. Cause and effect. Simple.)_

Root holds her breath, then releases it. She reaches for Sameen's hand in the water. Root touches her wrist, finds her pulse point. _Thud, thud, thud; a living, breathing person._

What do you do, really? You tie a knot with your hands and hope that it will hold against the strain. That's not science, it's _faith._

 

– fin


End file.
